Disclaimer: X-Force, X-Men, Cable, and all related characters are not mine. They are the property of Marvel Characters, Inc. No copyright infringement is intended (although, in some cases, necessary).

A/N: This story take place between X-Force v1 issues 14-70, including annuals and a few Cable and X-Men issues set around the time period of 1992-97 (although this story was 'modernized' to fit in with current 21st century technology). I kept pace with most events in the actual series, however liberties were taken with various team memberships, some situations, certain dialogues altered/improved, AND I took a whole different direction with the Benjamin Russell debacle. That Shatterstar origin story, for those of you who'd had to endure reading it "back in the day", was complete nonsensical garbage, so I tried my best to rewrite it- Darke Angelus style.

Spanish translations (where applicable) are located at the end of each chapter.

Enjoy!

It had taken Julio Esteban "Rictor" Richter a long time to try and figure Shatterstar out.

The Mexican had joined up with X-Force late in the game, not knowing of the circumstances behind this strange teenager's presence among the bunch. He only saw a new face among a mutant group that was pretty limited in number, so it was always intriguing to learn more about somebody different, and they didn't come much stranger than 'Star, who was a bioengineered time-displaced alien gladiator. Even standing beside the giant who was James Proudstar, the young man was extremely tall and built like a Mac truck. His enthusiasm towards violence reminded Ric a little of Wolverine. The redhead was trained as a swordsman and incredibly fast and particularly vicious. It was only during the rare times he actually spoke that it revealed his vast intelligence and surprising youth. 'Star had a heavy accent, sounding like a cross between Japanese and Russian, and it was pretty obvious he had only recently learned English. Even so, his words were almost always carefully thought out, as if he had rehearsed them several times in his head before he expressed his opinions. When he was frustrated (which was often), he lapsed into a strange guttural dialect that made his deep voice even rougher.

"Hey man, what kinda language is that?" Rictor had asked him after the red-headed warrior had launched into a scathing tirade at Boom Boom when she had botched her turn at laundry duty and accidently turned his usually pristine white gloves a bright pink.

"Cadre Alliance," he responded sullenly, staring at the ruined material. Sullen appeared to be Shatterstar's dominant personality. After a couple of weeks with the team Ric had yet to see him smile or hear him laugh. Even among this motley collection of emotionally-scarred mutant misfits, the Mojoworlder stood apart from them. Possibly because he was alien, probably because he just preferred it that way. "It is the language of the rebellion on my home world."

"It sounds pretty cool. Maybe you can teach it to me sometime, si?"

'Star had looked at him suspiciously, as if expecting to be the butt of some joke he didn't understand, but Rictor had been serious and the other teen realized that. The usual tension eased from his face for a moment and that was when Rictor noticed how much of a light blue 'Star's eyes were, almost silver, particularly the left one that was tattooed with an eight-pointed star. "I ... yes, I could do that."

"Sweet," Ric said, slapping him on the shoulder and walking away. He got halfway down the hall and for no clear reason, stopped and looked back over his shoulder. 'Star was still standing there, watching him. When he became aware of the scrutiny, he gripped his ruined gloves tighter in his hand and turned away, walking in the opposite direction. That was when Rictor noticed something else; the alien had a great ass, and the Hispanic was left bewildered why that thought had even crossed his mind.

Over the following months came the senseless battles and conflicts that marked a mutant's life under the X-Men banner. It was such a small close-knit community that one group's troubles invariably spilled over into the others, drawing them either all together against a foe or – more times than not - in direct opposition with each other. It depended on the threat or Cable's outlook at the time, whose opinions seemed to change whenever it was convenient for him (and that was only during the rare times he was actually with the group instead of off tending to his own secret agenda). Rictor didn't like Cable. Never would. And it bothered him more than a little to see how utterly devoted Shatterstar was to the man, and how similar the two were in personality. Ruthless, driven, and batshit crazy. 'Star sometimes scared Rictor a little, he scared the entire bunch of them. The only one worse was Feral, who was even weirder. The former Morlock was more feline than human, lost to the predatory instincts of her mutation and always bloodthirsty. It was obvious that she had the hots for 'Star in a major way and there were many in the group who thought that her and Shatterstar were a perfectly suited couple, even if trying to vision their union was a little unsettling. The only problem was that he had absolutely no interest in her, except as a sparring or combat partner.

"Man, I don't know why you don't tap that," James remarked one afternoon when they were in the showers after a particularly gruelling workout. "I have a feeling she'd be wild in the sack."

'Star as usual, whenever the conversation lapsed to sex (which, among the other four young men, was all the damned time), had nothing to say on the subject except the usual; "She is a competent warrior. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Shit, do you hear yourself?" Roberto da Costa remarked, lathering up his hair. "She's more flexible than a gymnast and she's got tits out to here. And, man oh man, she's got a freaking tail. Can you imagine? That's one pussy with a pussy, that's all I'm saying."

"Bobby, that's really gross," Sam said, red-faced and trying not to laugh.

"Oh c'mon, Guthrie, you of anyone should be encouraging this. The only thing Boomer's giving you is a case of blue balls and carpel tunnel. If Shatty has the chance to score, we should all be cheering him on. Right, Ric?"

Rictor was only half-listening. His long brown hair was hanging in his face and he was glancing furtively through the wet strands watching 'Star shower in the stall across from him. The alien's pale skin was devoid of any trace of birthmark, freckle, or scar. Absolutely flawless. He wasn't as grossly muscled as James or lanky like Sam, but a perfect amalgam of the two, the muscles in ideal symmetry to his height and build. His ass, which had first caught Rictor's eye, was firm and smooth, the muscles clenching and unclenching with perfect rhythm as he rinsed off under the hot spray. When he turned around Ric noticed something else. 'Star was well-hung. Even lying flaccid amidst the copper nest of curls, his penis showed impressive length and girth.

Seven inches, Ric found himself thinking. Hell, maybe even eight when hard. Pretty impressive when he, himself, barely made five and even then he was taking liberties with a ruler. He wasn't a tall guy, only five feet-nine to 'Star's six-three, so it shouldn't have come as much surprise but it did just the same. Shatterstar was absolutely perfect. To Rictor, who measured himself by his own numerous shortfalls (real or imagined), it just didn't seem fair.

"Hey, Ric!" James threw a washcloth at him and it splattered against his chest, startling him from his thoughts. "You still with us?"

"I heard you," he said, pulling the wet hair out of his eyes. "And I think Feral's a freak. I don't blame 'Star for avoiding her. She looks like a puta who would gobble you down and then bite it off."

"Whoa. When you put it that way, she does have awfully sharp fangs," Bobby mused, grimacing at the mere thought. They all did. The topic mercifully moved onto to Jimmy and Theresa. The big Native American had an unrequited crush on the team's Deputy Leader and immediately went on the defensive. Within minutes, they were all shouting at each other.

Ric glanced over to 'Star again, who was turning off his shower. Their eyes met briefly and the Mexican was positive he saw a flash of gratitude in that faint blue regard before the alien retrieved his towel and went to the locker room to get dressed. His red hair hung all the way down to the small of his back, acting like an arrow pointing to those glistening buttocks and Ric had to actively force his eyes away from the sight. He leapt back into the boisterous conversation, being as purposely coarse and direct as any straight, perfectly normal seventeen year-old could be.

Their period at Camp Verde, the abandoned Apache Indian Reserve in Arizona, was one of Rictor's most favorite times among the group, and probably the most confusing. He was a pretty horny guy and made sure to find the time to jerk off at least once a day. Thinking about Rahne Sinclair used to do the trick and get him off in fairly short order. He had never done anything more than kiss her, maybe managed the odd clumsy grope, but he was imaginative and could easily fill in the blanks. Fantasies of Boomer and Theresa; hell, sometimes even Domino were put to enthusiastic use.

Lately though, Shatterstar had somehow wandered into the tableau and, instead of ruining the moment, his presence somehow intensified the experience. One moment, Rictor was thinking about Boomer's perky tits (or how he thought they might look), his cock as hard as stone in his fist then, for no damned reason, Shatterstar's dick came to mind. The mere thought made him come harder than usual, semen splattering against his chest and lower belly, his nerves jumping and mind whirling in confusion. What the hell-? He dismissed the disturbing incident as a fluke but the next time he indulged himself, damned if it didn't fucking happen again! As a result, he went out of his way to avoid 'Star as much as possible while trying to marshal his struggling machismo. He came from a deeply religious, gun-running crime family and being manly was not only expected, it was a cultural demand. His upbringing had been filled with homophobic slurs of "joto", "maricón", and "cacorro" hurled at anyone who displayed even the slight hint of any kind of effeminate behaviour. Rictor was straight "soy buga", not some limp-wristed ass-burglar, and went out of his way to prove it.

One afternoon during a rare period of downtime among the group, he tried to kiss Boomer and got quickly shot down. In desperation, he even flirted with Feral and was ignored. She was still visibly pining for the alien, who was off on one of his day-long training sessions out in the desert. Then, Ric heard through the grapevine that Theresa had gotten shitfaced and had thrown herself at Shatterstar. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, the warrior had coldly rebuffed her attempt (to James' eternal relief). Hearing that, Rictor just couldn't figure 'Star out. Among all of them, he was the only one who could have been getting laid on a regular basis and he was choosing to stay unattached. It was enough to turn the Mexican into a complete basket case. It was small wonder, then, why he lashed out at the Mojoworlder that afternoon when 'Star usurped the remote control to the television and began his nonsensical channel surfing. He just wanted to get as much distance between them as he possibly could.

The group made weekly supply-runs into Phoenix and, when it was Rictor's turn to drive, 'Star had made the odd request to tag along. That made everyone extremely nervous. Unleashing him on an unsuspecting civilian population was a little like unchaining a pit bull at a parade. 'Star assured the group it was simply curiosity spurring him on. He had spent so much time watching Earth through the television that now he wanted to start seeing things in person. He promised to be on his best behaviour. Despite his better judgment Rictor vouched for him, and the three hour drive into the city was spent mostly listening to the Hispanic's iPod playlist through the jeep's stereo. He loved hip-hop and heavy metal, a taste that set him apart from the others, and he was stunned when 'Star admitted that he found the hectic thrashing music "soothing". Excited, Rictor spent the rest of the drive acting as 'Star's personal DJ; playing select tracks, providing information on the groups, and talking his fool head off. To 'Star's credit, he actually appeared to be paying attention. What should have been a long, potentially awkward jaunt into the city turned into a turning point for them both.

When the time came to drop 'Star off, Rictor found he really didn't want to. They parted with cautions and wisecracks. Shatterstar's brand of humor was dull and dry. Even he would be the first to admit he was an action star, not a comedian. Afterwards, Rictor spent the rest of the day thinking about him as he went on various errands. It wasn't out of concern that someone would tick 'Star off and the warrior would go nuclear on their dumb ass. He knew that 'Star had self-control and subscribed to a warrior ethic that would forbid him from attacking any non-powered target. Even if that target was a mouthy, mutant-hating human. He had enough sense to walk away, even if the others didn't give him the credit to do so. Rictor wasn't sure how or when he became 'Star's advocate, but he seemed to have developed an insight into the alien's mind the others didn't. He just wanted the opportunity to pal around with him in the city away from the prying eyes and ears of their teammates and Cable. Especially Cable.

Six hours passed and Shatterstar was waiting for him at the precise time and place. Rictor was relieved to see him for no clear reason he could put into words, but was immediately put off by 'Star's reluctance to talk about his day. It was after-dusk and the alien was wearing sunglasses and a coat he had gotten from somewhere and his gruff attitude was particularly unnerving. Rictor ended up pulling over and turning on the dome light. "Take off the glasses, amigo, and look at me."

With a grumble, 'Star did as instructed and turned towards him. He had a black eye and there were bruises on his face. He looked pale and roughed up.

"What the hell did you get up to?" Rictor accused.

"I was abducted by Arcade and forced to do battle," he responded, his voice rougher than usual, as though he had been shouting a lot.

"How come your bruises aren't healing?" 'Star had an impressive healing factor. Not nearly as efficient as Wolverine's, but far faster than a human. Scratches and bruises usually faded in minutes.

"My system is currently taxed. I have extensive internal injuries."

He spoke the words so casually that, at first, Rictor had thought he was joking. "Show me," he found himself asking and 'Star reluctantly lifted up his shirt and displayed the wound on his chest. The gash below his left pec had closed but the skin around it was swollen and a nasty glaring purple. "Madre de Dios," he said, grimacing. "What the fuck happened?"

"Just told you."

"Specifics, hombre. Don't be an ass."

'Star pulled his shirt back down and wearily rubbed his eyes, a gesture the other teen had never seen him do before. In that rough, hoarse voice the alien offered greater detail of his ordeal. Shatterstar had been a top-rated performer on his homeworld's video network slaughter games and his decision to run away and join the rebel alliance had not endeared him to his former master Mojo V. Arcade had been hired by Major Domo, the Master Programmer on Star's home world, to force him to fight against Mojo's Imperial Protectorate. 'Star had been victorious, only minimally wounded, but then had been forced into conflict against Adam-X.

"Xtreme? You had to fight that freak?"

"We eventually conceded to a mutual draw," 'Star said vaguely, leaving out specifics. It was pretty clear that the majority of his wounds were from the result of that battle. Adam Neramani was a hybrid human/Shi'ar warrior with the mutant ability to ignite the blood of his opponent. Rictor had been on the receiving end of that power once and knew it was agonizing and debilitating. All things considered, it was a miracle that 'Star was even still breathing.

"Sonovabitch stabbing you like that," Rictor cursed, more angry at Adam than Arcade. It wasn't logical but the anger was still there nonetheless. "If I ever see that pendejo-"

"It is not Adam's fault. The wound was self inflicted."

"-I'm gonna ... What? You did that to yourself? Qué chingados!"

By this point, 'Star was almost looking amused by his teammate's reaction but at least he had the sense not to draw things out for entertainment sake. "It was a strategy that brought about the cessation of further conflict. Windsong was a holographic ruse and Arcade turned out to be an android. It was all quite anti-climatic, really."

"Well, if you say so," Rictor muttered, turning off the overhead light and pulling back onto the road, accelerating. "You know best, I guess. So ... who's Windsong?"

"My wife."

Ric slammed his foot down on the brake and 'Star, who had never understood the importance of seatbelts or used them, went face-first into the dash. "Fekt!" he snarled, cradling his nose. He glared at the other teen through watering eyes.

"Lo siento! Sorry!" Rictor said, pulling over again. "You just- you dropped one helluva bomb there, amigo. You-you're freakin married?"

Checking beneath his nose for bleeding, 'Star mumbled something ugly in his language and finally said, "I was paired with a genetically compatible female when I was a child. At a prescribed time we were expected to mate and add our unique genes to the next generation of gladiatorial warriors."

Rictor grimaced. "The way you put it sounds like breeding cattle."

"That is how we were regarded by the Spineless Ones. Cattle. Animals. Our coupling would have televised strictly for their amusement. I broke ranks and escaped the slave pens before the date of our union. I have never personally met Windsong."

"But it's still like an arranged marriage, right? If ... when you go back, you'll end up with her."

'Star appeared to be genuinely floundering with this topic. "I don't know. Perhaps ..."

"Huh," Rictor marvelled, staring at the alien with a mixture of emotions in his dark brown eyes; respect coupled with a vague sense of disappointment. "That's why you've got no interest in Feral or Theresa. That's really, I dunno, admirable, amigo. You waiting for her an all. That-that's really nice."

"Rictor-"

"My name's Julio, dude. I don't mind if you use it."

Rictor had never made that offer to him before. It sounded like something immensely personal so he felt obliged to do the same. "Gaveedra Seven."

"Gesundheit."

"No, you don't understand. That's my designation. My ... name. Gaveedra battle model of Lot Seven."

Rictor looked at him strangely for a few seconds. "Uh, I think I'll stick to calling you 'Star. It sounds better. No offense."

A semblance of a smile crossed the young warrior's weary features. "Agreed. No offense taken."

There was a span of companionable silence as they simply looked at each other. Then someone drove by beeping their horn and it broke the spell. Rictor cleared his throat and said, "Look, it's a long drive back. Why don't you recline your seat and try to get some shut-eye? I'll keep things quiet."

"You can play your music. I don't mind," 'Star said, settling deeper into his seat and pulling the lever to move the backrest. He put his sunglasses back on and crossed his arms, laying his head back.

"Sure," Rictor said, smiling. He turned on the iPod and selected Rammstein, pulling back onto the freeway. Several times during the drive, Rictor pulled his eyes away from boring tarmac and desert and glanced over at 'Star. The alien was out cold, another rarity, and the Hispanic was a little worried about him. He was slouched in his seat, arms still clasped together, head turned towards the passenger side window. He had a sharp, handsome profile, his full lips slightly parted as he slept. That flowing length of red hair was draped over his left shoulder. For no clear reason, Julio reached out and touched it, finding it just as soft as he figured it would be. When he realized what he was doing, he snatched his hand back and turned his attention back to the road, correcting sharply when he realized he had been drifting over the yellow line. His cock was now a hard, uncomfortable lump in the close confines of his jeans and he bit his lower lip, struggling with conflicted emotions; confused, anxious, and – oh, god damn it- horny as all hell. And for some twisted reason, it was Shatterstar who seemed to be flipping the switch.

This wasn't the first time Rictor suspected that something might be different with him than just his mutation of seismic energy manipulation. He had been born into a large Mexican crime family that thought nothing of inciting drastic acts of violence against random people for the most minor of transgressions. Homosexuality being a chief trigger. One of his uncles, a weasely-looking prick with greasy hair and missing teeth, had once bragged to Julio that he had stuck a knife in a guy's crotch just because the man had touched his arm "the wrong way". Julio had been thirteen then, already in turmoil over his rising powers, and beginning to become worried because most girls still looked gross. He had much as run away from home to try and escape his mutation as he had from his confusing sexuality. The Right had captured him, tortured him, used him as a weapon for their own purposes before he found sanctuary with X-Factor then, later, as a New Mutant. Among his own kind, he made friends, forced himself to find Tabitha and Rahne attractive because showers with Sam and Roberto were more flustering than they should have been. Over the next few years he assured himself that he was normal, at least as normal as a Mexican mutant in the United States could get. He was a student, he had adventures, and he was straight. Everything was perfectly fine.

Nothing was fine. He was lying to himself and was now beginning to realize that.

The road doubled, tripled before Ric's eyes and he scrubbed away bitter tears from his eyes, cursing under his breath. Cursing everything and everybody, particularly cursing his own traitorous body. It was the first time he allowed the fear that he might actually be gay actually enter his mind and found himself retreating from the very thought, like a small child cringing from a thunderstorm. "No te preocupes güey. No me importa. Estoy no joto. Ay dios. ¡No, yo no soy un pinche puto! Nel-!" He muttered under his breath.

"Urm?" 'Star jerked awake. "... Julio? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, amigo." How the alien had heard his mumbling over the rap music blasting from the speakers was mystifying. That and how his dick seemed to jerk just from hearing his name come from the other teen's mouth. "Just bitching at some cabron who cut me off. Go back to sleep."

Shatterstar glanced out of the windshield but didn't see taillights of the supposed offender. He didn't make any comment, not sure of the slang or its context. His eyes still hidden beneath his sunglasses, he glanced sidelong at his teammate, reading Rictor's uncomfortable body language, and his eyes drifted down. If he noticed the bulge in the Mexican's pants he gave no sign, and settled back in his seat, appearing to go back to sleep.

Julio went back to cursing himself. Silently.

Translations:

Ric: Qué chingados!"- What the fuck!

- "No te preocupesgüey. No me importa. Estoy no joto. Ay dios. ¡No, yo no soy un pinche puto! Nel!"- Don't worry about it, dude. It's not important. I'm not gay. Oh god. I'm not some fucking homo! Nope!

- "Cabron." – Motherfucker.